The Dwarves (17 page)

The fire crackled loudly. Kerolus threw on another log to keep the flames going and drive out the darkness.

I knew there was something sinister about it,
thought Tungdil. He wondered what it said about Gorén’s character that he had chosen to make his home there: It seemed a
strange place to live.

“Folk say that wayfarers who venture into the woods are set upon by monsters,” the peddler added. “The mountain lures the
creatures to it with the promise of easy prey. Sometimes hunger drives them out of the forest and into the towns. They eat
anything, man or beast.” He shuddered.

“Well, it’s good to have company,” Tungdil said sincerely, steeling himself for the next morning’s march among the trees.
At least he had his ax for protection. “Wait till you hear my story.”

He started to tell of his recent experiences, of his night in Goodwater and the meeting between the älfar and the orcs, but
his account tailed off when he came to describing the destruction of the settlement. The memories were still too fresh.

Retreating into silence, he tried to get some sleep, but the trees had set themselves against him, creaking and groaning as
soon as he closed his eyes. The forest seemed to take pleasure in keeping him awake.

Hîl and Kerolus were oblivious to the noise. Belatedly, it dawned on Tungdil why the men had partaken so freely of the brandy:
Their senses had been dulled so completely that nothing could rouse them from their sleep. The task of watching over the camp
and their lives was left to the unfortunate Tungdil.

With the coming of dawn, the rustling in the forest finally subsided and the peddlers packed their wagons, wished the dwarf
a safe journey, and rode away, refreshed and alert. Tungdil hadn’t slept a wink.

He gazed glumly at the forest, peering into the murk. Fretting wasn’t going to get him anywhere and he had to press on. Gorén
lived in the Blacksaddle, probably in the ruins of the dwarven tunnels, if Kerolus’s story was to be believed.

Monsters or no monsters, I’m coming through
. He gripped his ax with both hands and stepped among the trees. At once his whole being was assailed by malice and spite:
There was no mistaking the mountain’s displeasure at his approach.

Tungdil walked on regardless, intent on delivering the artifacts to Gorén so he could return to the comfort of Lot-Ionan’s
vaults. The sooner he accomplished his errand, the sooner he would be home.
Who knows, maybe the secondlings have replied to the letter already,
he thought brightly.

At length his obstinacy and determination paid off and he reached the foot of the mountain with the forest behind him and
not a monster in sight. Maybe the beasts attacked only after nightfall; in any event, he had made it unscathed.

The sheer sides of the Blacksaddle towered above him, steep, dark, and unmistakably hostile. For a moment he was tempted to
run away.

Even as he stood there, a volley of rocks sped toward him and he dove for cover just in time, the final boulder missing him
by the span of a hand. Each one of the rocks had been big enough to kill him, but he refused to be daunted. He had to find
Gorén.

Tungdil circled the base of the mountain without discovering any indication of a dwelling or path. He took to calling the
wizard’s name in the hope that he would hear him but was met with no response.

Muttering under his breath, he set out a second time around the mountain. This time as he scanned the dark fissured walls,
he spotted a narrow flight of stairs hewn skillfully into the rock. The breadth of the steps suited him exactly, but a big-booted
man would have struggled to keep his footing on the narrow stone slabs.

A hundred paces, two hundred paces, three hundred paces: Tungdil ascended the mountain, crawling on all fours and clinging
to the sculpted steps; there was nothing else to hold on to.

From time to time the mountain cast stones at him or loosed an avalanche of scree. Pebbles grazed his hands and face, and
a rock glanced off his forehead, tearing a gash in his skin. Feeling suddenly dizzy, Tungdil pressed himself against the flank
of the mountain, letting go only when the world stopped spinning. He wiped the blood from his eyes, gritted his teeth, and
climbed on.

“You can’t shake me off that easily! Vraccas created the dwarves from rock so we would rule the mountains. I’ll conquer you
yet!” he bellowed.

He could tell from the angle of his shadow that the sun had passed its zenith and was sinking in the sky. A cold wind whistled
around him, tugging at his bags. With every step his situation was becoming more perilous and he hardly dared consider the
descent, but at last he mustered the courage to glance down at the fair land of Gauragar, four hundred paces below.

He had never seen such an incredible display of color and light. The sun and clouds were playing on the landscape, casting
fleeting shadows over the meadows, fields, and forests. If he strained his eyes, he could make out settlements in the distance,
the individual buildings resembling tiny blocks of stone. Rivers wound their way through the countryside like shimmering veins
and the air smelled of spring.

The view was so spectacular that it almost stopped his breath. It gave him a sense of power and majesty, as if he himself
were a mountain. He could see now why the dwarves had chosen to make their homes in Girdlegard’s ranges.

He continued his ascent, climbing with new vigor and courage, until at last he reached a recess in the flank of the mountain
some five hundred paces above the ground. It seemed as good a place as any to spend the night.

The alcove was large enough to shelter him from the fierce winds and protect him from further attempts on the part of the
Blacksaddle to pelt him with rocks. He crawled inside cautiously.
Tomorrow will take care of itself
.

The sinking sun bathed the gloomy walls of his simple shelter in reddish light, playing on the textured rock. Tungdil stared
at the fissured surface; there was something about the markings that reminded him of runes.

He blinked.
Surely not?
He ran his hand over the rock.
There’s definitely something there.
Time and nature had worn away at the rock, but his searching fingertips found the shallow furrows of chiseled runes.

Tungdil had a sudden thought. Opening his tinderbox, he kindled a flame and scorched the haft of his ax. Taking the map from
his pack, he laid it facedown against the wall and ran the charred wood across the parchment.

At first the improvised charcoal wouldn’t stick to the paper, but at length he succeeded in shading over the runes. The symbols
appeared on the parchment, pale remnants of an ancient script.

Long moments passed while Tungdil studied the markings, struggling to make sense of the strange, cumbersome formulations.
At last, when he had translated the runes into modern dwarfish, he was able to divine the meaning of the lines.

Built with blood,

It was drenched in blood.

Erected against the fourthlings,

It fell against the fourthlings.

Cursed by the fourthlings,

Then abandoned by all five.

Roused by the thirdlings

Against the will of the thirdlings.

Drenched again

In blood,

The blood

Of all their

Line.

The mason had carved the verse in the shape of a tree, symbolizing renewal and the eternal cycle of life.

There was no way of gauging the age of the inscription, especially since the treatise on dwarven language in Lot-Ionan’s library
made no mention of such things, but Tungdil couldn’t escape the impression that the runes were terribly old, a message from
a long-forgotten era at least a thousand cycles past.

He breathed life into the words, reciting them aloud and listening raptly to the strange yet familiar syllables, so different
from human speech. The language moved him, stirred him, churning his emotions.

He wasn’t the only one roused by the sound. The ancient runes rolled through the folds and wrinkles of the mountain and woke
the Blacksaddle too. Something shifted in its memory and its hatred of the dwarves returned with a vengeance, this time directed
at Tungdil. The Blacksaddle quaked.

“I’m not going anywhere!” He pressed his back against the rock, determined not to be shaken out of the alcove by the shuddering
mountain.

Just then the wall behind him stirred as well. Grinding and groaning it slid back to reveal a tunnel. The shaking stopped
abruptly.

Tungdil decided it meant one of two things: Either the Blacksaddle was trying to lure him inside and hold him prisoner in
its flesh, or Gorén was welcoming him to his den.

With that, the matter was settled. He collected his things, shouldered the bag of artifacts, and strode determinedly into
the tunnel.

After barely three paces he felt an almighty shudder and the doorway closed on Girdlegard’s night sky. The stars of Girdlegard
twinkled their farewell and the dwarf was trapped inside.

Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle

T
he lofty buildings of the majestic palace shone luminous white against the clear blue sky. Sable turrets rose among the domed
roofs, sparkling in the sunshine. Like beacons, their shimmering brightness and imposing height lit the way to Lios Nudin
from a distance of fifty miles. A traveler would have to be blind to miss Porista.

Lot-Ionan feasted his eyes on the view. The circumstances surrounding the council’s meeting were worrying, but he was looking
forward to seeing the others all the same. With a tug on the reins, he curbed his mount and rode through the city at a more
sedate pace. Snorting, Furo made it known that he would rather gallop and feel the wind in his mane.

Tradition dictated that the meetings of the council took place in Porista’s opulent palace, a custom upheld by Girdlegard’s
magi for two millennia. The reason for the venue was twofold: Firstly, the practical consideration of a central location,
and secondly, and more crucially, Lios Nudin’s heart-shaped form. Like a well of enchantment, Lios Nudin supplied the other
five realms with magic, the energy flowing outward to Ionandar, Turguria, Saborien, Oremaira, and Brandôkai.

Lot-Ionan patted his indignant stallion on the neck and laughed. “There’ll be plenty of time for galloping on the way home,”
he assured him, keeping an attentive eye on the crowds.

The walls of Porista offered shelter and protection to forty thousand men. Grassy plains extended for hundreds of miles in
every direction and the population made a decent living from livestock and crops. Farming was profitable in these parts: Porista’s
produce was considered to be almost as good as that of Tabaîn, the northwestern kingdom nicknamed the Breadbasket because
of its fertile fields.

Lot-Ionan steered his horse through the bustling streets, dodging carts and carriages and taking care not to trample pedestrians
underfoot. He was already missing the tranquillity of his vaults.

At length he reached the gates of the palace, closed to ordinary mortals except by permission of the council. An invisible
trap ensnared foolhardy individuals who tried to slip over the walls. Glued to the masonry like insects on flypaper, they
were left to die of hunger and thirst, their magic bonds loosening only when nothing remained but bare bones. In matters of
security the council was unbending: The palace belonged exclusively to the magi and their staff.

Lot-Ionan recited the incantation. The doors swung open as if propelled by an invisible hand and the magus rode on.

On reaching a sweeping staircase of buff-colored marble, he reined in Furo and slid from the saddle. His path took him up
wide steps and through sunlit arcades on paving of elaborate mosaic. White pillars channeled the light from a vaulted glass
roof to shine on the colored tiles and show off the intricate designs. The walkway led all the way to the conference chamber
where his presence was awaited. He gave the password and the doors flew back.

The others were there already, seated at the circular table of malachite: Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty, Turgur the Fair-Faced,
Sabora the Softly-Spoken, Maira the Life-Preserver, and Andôkai the Tempestuous.

With Lot-Ionan, they formed the council of six and disposed of almost limitless power. Each used their magic to pursue a goal
of their choosing. Had the magi seen fit, they could easily have toppled the seven human kingdoms of Girdlegard and annexed
their land, but they were intent on perfecting their wizardry, not acquiring worldly might.

Lot-Ionan spoke first to Sabora, then greeted the others in turn, before taking his place between her and Turgur. His arrival
was acknowledged with brief, stately nods.

Sabora clasped his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said, smiling warmly. Her high-buttoned
dress of yellow velvet, a straight and somewhat stern affair, reached to the floor. Her short hair looked more silvery than
at their last meeting, but her gray-brown eyes were as lively as ever. She sought his gaze. “Andôkai was beside herself with
impatience.” She lowered her voice to a whisper so only he could hear. “So was I, but for entirely selfish reasons.”

Lot-Ionan returned her smile. Sabora made him feel like an amorous young man. Their affection was mutual.

“We know why you didn’t respond to our summons,” Andôkai told him. Her harsh tone made it sound like a reproach. She was attractive
in an austere sort of way and her physique was uncommonly muscular for a maga, lending credence to the rumor that she could
fight as well as any warrior. She wore her hair in a severe blond plait and her blue eyes seemed to search for a quarrel.

“Friedegard and Vrabor are dead,” Maira explained. She was taller and slimmer than Andôkai, with red hair that fell about
her pale white shoulders. Her simple dress of light green cloth was the perfect complement to her eyes and showed off the
gold trinkets hanging from her neck and ears. “The news arrived just before you did.” She looked over at Nudin. “It seems
to us that the evidence points to the älfar. We think the Perished Land sent them to thwart our meeting.”